


The Bathmaiden

by CrowKing



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Ramsay is His Own Warning, fic request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 19:45:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14244432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowKing/pseuds/CrowKing
Summary: Fic Request: Hey, I was wondering if you could do a Ramsay Bolton imagine where the reader has stockholm syndrome from him capturing her. And he doesn't feel the same way. and after his death Jon falls for her. Sorry, if that's too much info. :-) BTW I love ur writing.





	The Bathmaiden

The first thing that caught me was his eyes. They were like the blue roses that grew here in the North, but he was nothing like a flower. He was like the cold, black snow that hardened on the roads where carts would get stuck. His hands were dirty with something awful and his twitchy smile struck fear even in the strongest soldier.

And I loved him.

Every day I would watch him walk by the cells, choosing his next target, hoping one day he would choose me. My fingers wrapped around the bars, waiting and waiting for his footsteps. I heard his boots, and I knew it was him. He had a certain walk. It sounded confident. It sounded like a leader. 

He turned down the hallway with two of his best behind him. His eyes scanned the cells and landed on mine. I eagerly pressed myself against the bars, hoping his eyes would catch my curves or anything he could find attractive. 

“Her,” he ordered and turned away from me. He chose me. He chose me over any of the other prisoners. His two men forcibly took me to a different room in the dungeons. One that was further away and isolated. It had no flaying cross nor any chairs or tables. Just a single tub already filled with steaming water. Towels laid on small stool. I could smell something earthy and scented. 

The two men left me in the room by myself. I went over to the tub and realized where the smell was coming from. My nose inhaled the smells coming from the warm water. Was this meant for me? Why did he bring me here? Ramsay was known as a terrible thing forged from his ancestor’s mean bones. My captor hurt someone every night whether it be a stranger or his lovers. 

Maybe he hoped to make me one of his lovers? No, I was being too eager. That was wishful thinking. Or was it? There was no weapons in the room. There wasn’t anything in here that suggested punishment. 

The door opened, and I quickly turned around to see Ramsay entering the room. The candlelight burning away exposed something I couldn’t see in the cells. Blood. Blood on his right cheek. It had dried, but it was bright. 

“What’s your name?” he asked me.

“Y/N, my lord,” I responded. He smirked when I addressed him. 

“My father is Lord of Winterfell,” Ramsay corrected me.

“But you are his son, his heir, that makes you a lord doesn’t it?” I told him. I heard him chuckle, his eyes look up to the ceiling and then back to me.

“You’re a flattering thing aren’t you? You know your place very well,” Ramsay encircled me. “Maybe you’re clever as well. Tell me why you think you’re here.” I looked to the tub.

“To bathe?” Ramsay hummed low as if he disapproved my answer. I couldn’t disappoint him. Not now. Not when we were alone. I noticed the dirt on his skin, the dried blood on his cheek again. “You are going to bathe.”

“And?” Ramsay said.

“And I am here to bathe you,” I said, realizing the weight of my words. Ramsay stopped pacing and landed next to me.

“That’s correct. You are my new bathmaiden.”

“Bathmaiden?” I asked. “Wouldn’t you prefer a bedmaiden? Someone to warm your bed at night?” 

“No, I don’t need whores. I need a bathmaiden,” Ramsay’s breathed onto my face. “Now, take off my armor.” I began to unbuckle, unbutton, and shed layers of his northern clothing off of him. I could see the way his body curved. He looked like the old gods masterpiece. Someone of immense beauty, but with a hunger for violence. Maybe this is who the true lords of Winterfell should be. 

Ramsay stepped into the tub, and a low hum escaped his mouth as his body sank into the warm water. I watched his muscles relax in the water. I grabbed a wet cloth and I began to bathe him. I was touching him like a lover would, taking my time to memorize each inch of him. I felt so honored that he chose me, but I knew what I wanted. What I truly wanted.

“Why me?” I asked him. “Why did you choose me to your bathmaiden, my lord?”

Ramsay rolled his eyes at me. “Because you were available. Keep quiet and keep bathing me.” I annoyed him. I only asked him why, but he was right. I should know my place. I kept quiet and did my duty to him. 

Every other night, he would have me bathe him. And every night he would show up the same way. In armor, covered in someone else’s blood, with a smile on his face. I knew he tortured others for pleasure, but I never understood why he would wear armor.

“It’s a principle,” he explained to me. “You have to show your enemy that you are stronger than they are. You need to look bigger, stronger, and better than them.”

“To show dominance? Or power?” I asked him. It wasn’t long before Ramsay let me speak, and it wasn’t long after that we would have conversations during his baths. 

“Both, Y/N, however sometimes power and dominance isn’t in clothing. It’s in attitude. For instance,” Ramsay took my hand and placed it on his lower stomach, close to his cock. I felt my heart racing. “See? Look at you, you’re practically mine already. I don’t need armor with you. All I need is your touch, your skin against mine, to show you who’s in power here. Do you understand?” I nodded my head slowly. 

I understood his principle, but I already knew he had power over me. 

Ramsay enjoyed his baths, and when he would have disagreements with Myranda or any of his other lovers, he would spend more time with me at night. For once, I felt wanted. Ramsay would do the same. Let me take off his clothes, he would step into the tub, and I would bathe him. Tonight, I felt bold.

“What do you think of me?” I asked him. Ramsay’s face scrunched up.

“What do you mean ‘what do you think of me’?” He said. He blinked at me, waiting for some rational answer.

“Do you enjoy my company? Am I doing a good job?” I felt myself easing into it. I couldn’t ask Ramsay if he was falling for me that would annoy him. I was so close to him, and I was even closer to getting into his bed and becoming truly his. 

“Your company is tolerable,” Ramsay said. “You’re doing a decent job. Why are you asking me this?” I scrubbed his left palm. Dirt was disappearing and dissolving into the warm water.

“I noticed you’ve been spending more time with me than Myranda. I asked you what you thought me because it seems you enjoy my company more than hers,” I said, watching his reaction. Ramsay stared me down. He grabbed my wrist causing me to drop my towel. I watched his eyes grow darker in seconds. 

“Don’t assume what you don’t know. If you’re implying that I have any romantic feelings for you, you are dead wrong. I could have you killed and replaced and feel nothing for you,” Ramsay growled. He threw away my arm. “We’re done here.”

Ramsay climbed out of the tub in angry silence and sent me out of the room. His words hurt, but it was his actions that hurt me worse. In the next couple of days, Ramsay walked with Myranda everywhere. He would hold her hand, grab her by her waist, and whisper in her ear.

By the gods, I wish I was her. 

Everywhere he was, she was close behind. He saw me staring at her, and Ramsay placed a long kiss on her and watched me run away. His baths were no longer pleasurable. Late nights come and I felt myself finding it hard to breathe. How could I bathe him after what he did? What he constantly does? I see his naked form and he laughs in my face as if I’m the vulnerable one in the room.

I stayed quiet while I bathed him. I could hear the water wave to and fro every so often, but my heart was louder. Its beat would drown out Ramsay’s voice taunting me.

“You must be so happy,” he told me as I washed his feet. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” I mumbled.

“You don’t know? Myranda is dead,” he said. I stopped and looked at him. 

“I didn’t-I wouldn’t—

“I know who did it, you precious idiot. I’m not accusing you,” Ramsay said. “It seems my wife and my Reek have disappeared together. They killed her.”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” I looked back down to his feet and started to wash them again. Ramsay took his feet out of my hands and sunk them into the lukewarm water. 

“I must be completely desperate,” he said to himself. He scratched his chin and stared at me. “I must be awfully desperate.” Ramsay left the tub and put on his clothes. I watched the drops of water hit the ground.

The door creaked. “Aren’t you coming?” 

I turned to see Ramsay waiting at the door for me. My eyebrows knitted together. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“I lost Myranda. She made me kill off any other bedwarmers I have. It seems you’re my last resort,” Ramsay explained. “I’ve seen your eyes on me on more than one occasion. I know how you feel. So are you coming?” 

Ramsay was finally inviting me to his bed. After months and months of waiting, watching, and hoping, Ramsay led me out the door and towards his room. Fire burned in the hallways and the quiet snow fell around the castle. Ramsay’s hand gripped mine tight as if I would run from him. I would never run from him, not my keeper. Not my master. I wouldn’t do that to him.

The door to his room opened with a slow creak sound closed behind us with a satisfying lock. Immediately, his lips found mine. He kissed me hard. His hands went under my dress faster than I wanted him to, but it was exciting. He was rough. By no means did I expect this to be gentle experience.

He wouldn’t let me breathe between kisses. He bit the side of my neck and shoulders. I cried out in pain, but I wanted this so bad. I couldn’t displease him now. I heard the fabric rip apart and I felt the cold air touch my legs. Ramsay wasted no time as he entered inside of me. And it hurt.   
Ramsay grabbed my legs and kept them around him. His fingers dug deeper into my skin with every push he exerted. My hips hurt, but I kept smiling. I wanted this. I was getting what I wanted. This should feel good.

Ramsay bent down and kissed me again and again. My keeper kept me warm from the elements, and I was pleasing him. My hands entangled in his hair. His hands kept me in place as his hips moved back and forth. It felt like we were the only two in this world. None of his other lovers existed. Nothing could touch us.

“Say my name,” I whispered aloud to him. I wanted to hear him say it. Ramsay grunted. His eyes were shut, but I knew he heard me. “Please, my lord. Say my name.”

Ramsay breathed out. “Myranda.”

I could feel my heart breaking into pieces. They fell off the bed and onto the floor. The pieces rolled off into the corners of the room. 

“Myranda. Myranda. Myranda.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. No, this isn’t what I wanted at all. His cock was still inside me going in and out. I was still wet from him and the movement. I still loved him.

“Myranda.”

But he never loved me. He never will.

Ramsay rocked his hips faster until I could feel his seed inside me. Ramsay bent forward and bit down on my shoulder hard. His teeth unhinged from my skin, and rolled off the bed. His naked form walked over to the window. 

“Get out, Y/N.” 

I gathered what was left of my dress and left. I would have gathered what was left of my heart, but it was Ramsay’s. The pieces would die in the floor and walls of his room. They would freeze to death in his cold room. They would never feel any kind of warmth. 

I watched him leave that day. He stood high on his horse looking over all of his men. As he left, Ramsay gave me one last look. He never loved me that much I understood, but his eyes looked over me once more as if he was saying goodbye. His horse left the castle, and I never saw him again.

I was never jealous of his wife, Sansa Stark. I admired her. Her beautiful fire-touched hair whipped behind her as she headed towards the kennels. I watched her walk gracefully enjoying each step of her new freedom.

“Y/N? Am I right?” Sansa spoke to me. I nodded to her. “You were his bathmaiden.”  
“I was.”

“I remember. Myranda was jealous of you. I’m glad she never killed you herself. I always thought you were kind.”

“Thank you for your kind words, my lady,” I smiled at her. I heard footsteps behind us. I turned to see Jon Snow, the curly, dark-haired bastard now Lord of Winterfell. His eyes fell onto me.

“I believe its time, Sansa,” Jon nodded at her. Sansa turned and left us behind. She held the kennel keys in her hands. They jingled and moved, but I had a feeling she wasn’t going to release anything.

“Sansa told me about you,” Jon made small talk.

“She did?”

“Yes, she told me how kind you were to her when she was here. Thank you for that,” Jon continued. “Did he hurt you too?” His tone was genuine, and I had to think. Did Ramsay truly hurt me? Or was I too blind to see what was really happening?

“In a way he did, but not physically,” I said honestly. Jon’s dark eyes caught mine. He found my hand and put into his own. His thumbs brushed over my knuckles.

“After this night, he will never hurt you again,” Jon smiled. His hands didn’t leave mine. My eyes didn’t leave his. I could feel the pieces of my heart leave Ramsay behind and go to the tips of my fingers where Jon touched me.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any comments, questions, or concerns, please let me know i take feedback very seriously. If you like my work and want to see more, please visit (crowkingwrites.tumblr.com) I post more content on there.


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